


In Any Study

by thermodynamicActivity (chlorinetrifluoride)



Series: The Collegestuck 'Verse [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety Disorder, Child Abuse, Collegestuck, Friends With Benefits, Gen, Humanstuck, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlorinetrifluoride/pseuds/thermodynamicActivity
Summary: It's the early 1990s, with all the Lisa Frank stickers, VHS tapes, triphop, and gigantic computers that this implies. In this era, four young people struggle to transition into becoming responsible adults, a feat that will far more difficult than any of them could have imagined. What's the point of being grown up if you can't eat Doritos for breakfast every day?There's Ro Lalonde, a well-meaning, genial college freshman, and an aspiring neurologist, who might just have a bit of a drinking problem, and who plans to adopt twenty cats one day.There's Derrick Strider, part time mechanic and full time high school dropout, who made his way from Austin, Texas to New York City, in order to get as far away from his abusers as possible.There's James Egbert, a college sophomore with a penchant for pipe tobacco, who has one semester to pick a major, and who may in fact, be the only sane person he knows.Lastly, there's Josh Crocker, a college junior, a history major, and the only one who can go toe-to-toe with James in terms of feats of manliness (and sanity).





	1. like you imagined, when you were young

**Author's Note:**

> this is not going to update regularly, but i have so many ideas about these guys so...  
> i guess i needed somewhere to put them for now
> 
> the ratings and the warnings are going to go up exponentially as this gets written, but for now, i'm good with leaving them where they are.

**August 2011 - Dad Egbert**

You’re cleaning out the attic and trying to find the pocket watch you used to carry around in college and graduate school. You want to get the tarnish cleaned off, and get a new battery put in, so you can give it to John. A man should carry a pocket watch, and John… he’s a man, now. Getting ready to go to college in a few weeks.

Instead, you find two things that are not what you’re looking for, but things that are undeniably from your undergraduate years.

One is a tobacco pipe with a large scratch across the bowl. While it was finely made and nice looking before it got scratched up, it is definitely a tad too flashy for your current sensibilities. Probably not worth fixing, then. You sigh.

The other thing is a polaroid photograph with the phrase “class of 93 or bust” written across the bottom in faded pink cursive.

Incidentally, in the picture, you are both wearing your pocket watch, and smoking your pipe. The blonde tousle-haired woman sitting next to you, with a wide smile that shows off her endearingly crooked white teeth, has a drink in her hand.

You can’t help but feel nostalgic, looking at this. You two look undeniably happy.

Life after college was not kind to the woman in the picture, but if there’s one thing she never stopped doing for long, even so, it was smiling.

You take your phone out of your pocket, snap a picture of this image, and go down your contacts until you find the right person to send it to.

 **347: Look what I’ve found.**  
**646: are you serious?**  
**646: we were such cute babies!!!!**  
**646: my hair looks only kinda ridiculous, this pic has to be from before 1991.**  
**347: I think I was at least twenty in that picture.**  
**646: you should show that to john.**  
**646: if he ever needs proof that you were not always a loser with a hat and a pipe**  
**646: well, that’s not really going to change his mind, come to think of it.**  
**646: ever find your pocket watch?**  
**347: I’m still looking, unfortunately.**

You gaze at the picture for a while, long after you and she stop texting each other. One of these days, you’ll invite her over, and you two can catch up. There were so many times you wish your once best friend had been unafraid to reach out to you.

There were so many times you wish you’d been more proactive and reached out to her, but all of that is in the past.

Or perhaps you’ll come by her apartment once her kids leave for college, after you make sure she actually wants your company.

You think of move-in day Fall 1990, with Ro driving the both of you from Astoria, all the way up to Ithaca. You were a sophomore at Cornell, she was a freshman, and the both of you had your entire lives ahead of you.

You recall a the opening lines of a book you had to analyze in some intro-level literature class.

_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times._

Yeah, James, that pretty well sums up your college years.


	2. haven't you seen that solidity's a kind of unleashing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some heavy shit, here  
> mind the warnings  
> the scene at the beginning of this chapter is set a few weeks after the first chapter of [such a funny thought to wrap you up in cloth](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6703513/chapters/15331792) so you might want to read that first in order to understand what's going on.

**December 2010 - Bro Strider**

After you ring the bell for like eighteen times, Ro opens the door to her apartment, but only as far as the chain will go. She glares at you like you’re a piece of dogshit she’s stepped in.

“Go away,” she says. “The kids’ll be home soon.”

She makes to close the door, but you stop it with one hand.

“Ro, will you just hear me the fuck out?”

“And why should I do that?” she asks, arms crossed over her chest.

“I want to talk to my children,” you say, trying not to sound as utterly broken as you feel.

She’s Dirk and Dave’s provisional guardian for the moment. You can see them if she gives it the okay.

The first week you spent without your sons, you turned up your music as loud as it would go, neighbors be damned, and sat against your speakers, letting your teeth rattle with the backbeat. Then, you decided you’d just take on extra shifts at your job until you ran out of work to do. Even your supervisor didn’t want to give you any overtime pay, so after a while, he just told you to go home. The cars could wait another day, and besides, you looked like death warmed over.

You returned to your empty apartment.

You turned up the music again.

Here and now, you start babbling at Ro.

“I never wanted to hurt them, if you can believe that,” you say. “I…”

“...wanted to make them stronger, you ended up scarring them for life, Derrick, and you’re really sorry about it,” she says, reciting the message you’d left, word for word. “Cut the shit, I’ve heard it already. I do listen to my voicemails.”

That’s an utter lie. The only time Ro listens to her voicemails is when her mailbox is full and she needs to clear it out.

You know you’ve fucked up, but you can’t take this shit anymore. You’re ready to fall to your knees and start begging.

You take off your shades so she can see the look in your eyes.

“What do I have to do for you to let me see them?” you ask.

Ro shrugs.

“If they want to talk to you, that’s on them, not me,” she says. “They’re old enough to make their own decisions. Shit, they’re almost as old as you were when you had--”

“Don’t remind me.”

Having kids. Not your smartest idea.

Ro gives one great sigh, contained therein a thousand smaller sighs, for a thousand various reasons.

“I’m sorry, but the answer is no, you can't see them,” she says.

“I wish things had gone differently,” you murmur, laid bare, utterly bereft of your usual pretenses and rationalizations.

A million ways your lives could have gone twenty years ago, and you never thought things would end like this.

She nods at you in agreement. “Me too.” 

You’ve hurt your kids. You’ve seriously hurt your kids. You may have hurt them beyond repair. The worst part is, you don’t even think they hate you. Instead, they’re scared of you. You may have been a better parent than your parents, but that’s setting your standards so far underground that you've tunneled clear through the sewer system.

Dirk and Dave deserved better.

You put your shades back on.

This time, when she closes the door in your face, you don’t ring her bell again.

You walk out of her building, and back across the street to your own apartment.

You lie down on your clean bed sheets, take off your shades, put them on your bedside table, and have something akin to a staring contest with the ceiling for a few hours. You remember you and Ro passing a flask of rum back and forth in a park, right after you’d just met. Hell of a way to make a new friend.

You remember the first time Dirk’s little hand took your index finger, and how you thought you could die on the spot, because that, that was the first time you felt perfectly at peace. You stared at him, utterly awestruck at this tiny human being. Of course, he started crying a minute later, because he was hungry, but still. You adored him. You adored Dave.

Those days seem like someone else’s life.

You think about texting Dave or Dirk, but Ro’s right.

They’re old enough to make their own decisions. They’re their own people. It’s not on them to forgive you. If they don’t want you in their lives, that’s… that’s just how it’s gonna have to be.

You roll over, open your laptop, fiddle around with your website for a while, and stare out into space, wondering on the precise point where you went wrong, and realizing that there were, in fact, several of them. Can’t do anything about it now, though, can you? What’s done is done. You can’t take it back.

You figure you might as well try to think of something more pleasant while you’re doing nothing.

* * *

 

**August 1990 - Bro Strider**

When you get off the bus you’ve been stuck on since Washington DC, you don’t kiss the ground in gratitude, but you’re not far off from considering it. Comforted by the fact that you’ve reached New York City in one piece, you ask the driver where the nearest payphone is, even though you’re normally a man of few words.

Strike that, you’re normally a man of no words.

The driver points across the street from the bus terminal, and you make your way over there, narrowly avoiding being hit by a taxi.

Your first impression of this place is that it is monochrome as all hell - murderous yellow cabs aside - and there are entirely too many people here.

You grew up not far from Austin, so you’re no stranger to cities, but holy shit, this is slightly overwhelming. Too many people in too few square feet.

You adjust your shades, pick up the receiver on the payphone, put a quarter into the appropriate slot, and dial your friend’s phone number. The friend you’re going to be living with for the foreseeable future.

He works at a garage, fixing up cars, and he put in a good word to his boss as far as you were concerned, so much so that you’ve been offered a position there. It pays off the books, which is cool, ‘cause fuck the very idea of the Tax Man trying to get his grubby little hands in your pockets.

Even though you have a grand total of twenty bucks on you, most of it in change, at least you have a job lined up. You’re supposed to start on Monday. Your friend’s promised to show you the ropes then.

Four rings later, you get his answering machine. Just your luck.

“Hey man, it’s Derrick. I’m at Port Authority, I think. Since you clearly ain’t home, I guess I’m gonna take a look around and call back later on. See ya.”

Given that your foster parents never gave a shit where you were unless an inspection was coming up, you’re used to wandering around alone. It’s one of the few things that can set your mind at ease. Just pick a direction, and start walking, until you either run out of sidewalk, or until it gets dark.

Last time you spoke to your friend, a few minutes before you got on the bus in DC, he told you that his apartment was south of the bus terminal and several avenues east. Unless New York City is part of some bizarro world where cardinal directions are flipped in the reverse, you assume that if numbers on the streets are decreasing, you’re walking in the right direction.

W 39th street. W 38th street. W 37th street. You guess the W stands for west. It might as well stand for What The Fuck for all you know.

Ten blocks later, you dig around in your backpack until you find your Walkman, which already has a cassette in it. You put on your headphones, and press play. The first few bars of one of Public Enemy’s songs starts up. At least you have something good to listen to.

You continue moving south at a brisk pace, ignoring everything around you but the beat and lyrics of the music. Well, not entirely. You’re not stupid enough to fully let your guard down, lest someone try to mug you. You have a switchblade in your pocket, and you can run pretty fast, but if your assailant has a gun, you are patently fucked.

W 23rd street. W 22nd street. W 21st street.

You wonder if you’ve gone too far downtown, but you’re not about to ask anyone. You’d buy a map or something, but that would be a waste of your remaining money. So you keep walking without a clue of where you’re going.

By now, your parents must have realized that you’re missing, like, for real. It’s taken you nearly a week to get here from Austin.

You’re kind of counting on the fact that they don’t exactly give a shit about you, aside from the check that keeping your sorry ass brings in.

Besides, you even warned them that you were leaving. Shouted it, more like. Shouted it after you called the pair of them a waste of fucking oxygen. Not your most thoughtful move. Normally you think before you act, but your parents have a talent for getting under your skin the way nobody else can.

For that remark, you earned one hell of a shiner from your pops, and managed to duck and then land a decent hit before he could do anything worse. Then, you started sprinting for your life, and since you’d already put your duffel bag and backpack on the porch, at least you were ready to get the hell out of dodge. You grabbed them, and managed to run clear to a gas station several miles away before you even _thought_ of stopping.

From there, you called your friend in New York, and told him you were getting your ass the fuck outta this hellhole at long last. You’d looked at yourself in a cracked mirror, winced, and figured your eye would look ugly as hell in few hours.

Presently, swelling above your cheek has gone down and the bruise itself has faded to a sickly yellowish-green color. If someone looks at you hard enough, though, they’ll probably figure out more than you want them to. Or they won’t give a shit. You’re banking on nobody giving a shit.

So, whatever. You’re good. You're cool. You’ll stay that way, you tell yourself.

Striders don’t act like weak little shits, ‘cause they can’t afford to. Either you get your ass kicked, or you do the ass-kicking. That’s how life goes. Only tough people can come out on top, and you are not about to let anyone knock you down. Never again.

You card a hand through your hair and survey your surroundings more closely.

There seems to be a payphone on every other block.

As long as this trend continues, at least you'll have somewhere to go when you want to call your friend later. You try to remember what time he’s supposed to get out of work, so you don’t end up having another one-sided conversation with his answering machine, but you’re not really sure.

Normally your plans are more well thought-out than this, but as of now, you’re making things up as you go along. It annoys you, but you do what you gotta.

More walking.

Jesus, why is it so hot this far north? You assumed there’d be penguins here or some shit.

You’re wearing a wifebeater, a pair of cargo shorts, your underwear, and your fingerless gloves and you’re still hot. You curse who or whatever invented humidity, ‘cause you are sweaty in places you’d rather not think about.

Around W 4th Street you reflect that, fuck, you’d kill for a smoke right about now. You finished your last one out the window of the bus, somewhere in New Jersey.

But as if providence has decided to take pity on your dumb overheating ass, there’s a young woman standing next to a hot dog stand, puffing away on a cigarette.

She’s got short, even lighter hair than yours, and wears a sleeveless black dress with stockings and jewelry. In other words, she looks affluent enough that she probably won’t try to rob you. And even if she did, she’s gotta be five foot one max, and maybe a hundred pounds. You could take her in a fight easy.

At any rate, she’s staring at you, her cigarette giving off little curlicues of smoke as it rests between her index and middle fingertips. You make a beeline for her, and accidentally bump into an older guy who gives off the distinct smell of booze and cigars.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going, asshole,” he growls.

You’d pop off with a smartass retort, but you cannot be bothered to give a fuck, nor do you want to start a fight. You should probably get your bearings before you entertain something like that.

The blonde woman’s expression grows a little more concerned - at least you figure it’s concern - once it’s clear that you’re walking up to her in particular. Her lips tighten into a line. Maybe you’re scaring her. She’s tiny and you’re not.

“Scuse me,” you say, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible. “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra cigarette, would ya?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, sure,” she says. Now that you’re close enough to see her properly, you realize that she is rather nice to look at. She fumbles through her pocketbook, and produces a mostly depleted pack of Newports.

She gives you one.

“Thanks,” you say.

If you’re not mistaken, she is also checking you out. She’s making a decent attempt at playing it off all cool, but can generally tell when the ladies and the gentlemen are trying to get an eyeful. You don’t mind this at all. She can have all the eyefuls she wants, and more besides.

You stick your hands in your pockets, digging around for a lighter, which you cannot seem to find. You know it had been in your pocket in Jersey, but then again, you have no fucking luck where that lighter is concerned.

“Hang on, I got this,” she says.

The cute girl takes out a Zippo, and makes to hand it to you, but her movement comes too abrupt, and you recoil before you can stop yourself. If the girl thinks this is strange, she doesn’t comment on it.

You light your cigarette, and take your first, glorious inhale of sweet sweet nicotine. The girl continues to look you over.

“Somethin’ on my face?” you drawl, hooking your thumbs in your belt loops.

“Nope, not really,” she says, crushing the butt of her own cigarette underfoot, and lighting another one. “You just look kinda lost is all. Are you a tourist or something?”

She looks fairly harmless, and something about her sets you at ease, so you decide to tell her an approximation of the truth.

“Nah, I just moved here from Austin,” you reply. “Got off the bus at Port Authority maybe an hour ago.”

She giggles.

“No kidding. You got the greatest accent ever, you know that? Like a cowboy or some shit.”

You take another drag. “Far as I can tell, you’re the one with the accent, um, uh...”

“Roxana,” she supplies. “Ro, actually. Only my family calls me Roxana.”

You stand around and people watch for a while, smoking next to Ro, who has not yet left her spot. Then, the hot dog stand guy starts giving her a hard time, insisting that her smoking is driving away customers, angrily gesturing this way and that way.

Ro takes a step back. You unconsciously drop into strife stance, ready to put yourself between this guy and the lady you just met, but Ro is mostly unfazed by him.

“Farouk, you literally have a hot dog stand twenty feet from a place that sells hot dogs for less money,” she says, with an eye-roll. “Your lack of business has got nothing to do with me, but whatever, I’m leaving. Happy?”

She slings her bag over her shoulder, and starts to walk away. Then, she turns around again as an afterthought.

“There’s a park a few blocks away,” she tells you. “I’m gonna smoke there, so this guy doesn’t get his undies all twisted up. Wanna come along, Texas?”

You think of protesting that your name is Derrick, Bro to your good friends, but you’re far too amused and intrigued for that. You’ll follow her. Besides, your roommate won’t be out of work for a while. Might as well spend some of that while with an attractive girl.

When you reach the park, Ro makes a beeline for an empty bench, and sits down. You sit down next to her. She kicks her shoes partially off, leaning back and letting out a sound of contentment.

Then, she removes a metal flask from her pocketbook of holding, unscrews the top, and gulps down a healthy measure of its contents.

“Thank fuck,” she says, wiggling her stocking-clad toes. “Another hour and I woulda killed someone. I’ve been on my feet all day. ”

You have yet to comprehend the reason why women wear high heels. It’s one of the stupidest things you’ve ever witnessed. You can’t fight in them, and you probably can’t run in them. What’s the allure?

“What for?” you ask.

Nobody could pay you enough to stand around in impractical shoes for more than ten minutes.

“I work at a clothing store, like six blocks that way.” She points in the appropriate direction. “So I gotta look fancy and shit.”

Makes sense, you guess.

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, fersure. But it pays pretty good, and today was my last day there anyway.”

If she got fired, no wonder she’s drinking in a park in the early afternoon.

“Oh,” you reply. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all good,” she says. “I quit ‘cause I’m getting ready to start college. Pretty soon, I’m gettin’ the fuck outta here.”

“Congratulations.”

You’re not sure else what to say to that without accidentally betraying some resentment that has sweet fuck all to do with her.

When you were younger, you sort of thought that you might go to college one day, even though the classroom wasn’t exactly your thing, but then… extenuating circumstances rather extenuated the fuck out of your tentative plans.

It stings to think about it. You know you’re probably smart enough for college, that your grades were okay, and you were even involved with extracurricular nonsense or whatever the fuck fencing and track team counts as, but shit happens.

Shit happens so hard that you couldn’t endure it anymore. Consequently, you left your house three weeks before your junior year was supposed to start, finally ready to take your friend up on his offer, in an attempt to put a ridiculous amount of distance between you and your parents.

The guy you’ll be living with, he’s a solid dude. For most of your childhood, he lived two blocks away from your house. He was a five and a half years older than you, and he taught you how to fight.

A few years ago, he left for New York, and you pleaded with him to take you with him. He said he’d consider it when you got older. Well, now you’re older, and now you’re here, and you’re not exactly sure what you’re gonna do with your life.

Sometimes, you think that maybe you could have stuck it out with your current set of parents until the end of your senior year, gone to a school far the fuck away from them, and never looked back, but… that’s not what you did.

(And how would you have paid for it, anyway?)

You couldn’t wait out those two years. You were already at the end of your rope. It was either leave that place behind, or jump off the Pennybacker Bridge. You will never admit that to anyone for as long as you live.

You sigh, and stretch your arms out in front of you, leaning forward into the gesture.

Shitty thoughts swirl round and round in your head like the beginnings of a mental tornado.

“Hey, Ro?” you ask.

“Yeah?”

“Mind if I have some of what you’re having?”

She snorts, comments jokingly about your temerity - what does that word mean exactly? - and passes the flask.

“Really, though, don’t worry about it. Just try not to drink too hard. I’m kinda tiny. I can’t carry your ass all that far.”

“You got it.”

You take a long drink, and then give the flask back to her.

For the next hour or two, you two intermittently pass it back and forth, and oh, wow, Derrick, you’ve overestimated your tolerance, because you are edging the boundary of somewhat hammered. Thankfully, Ro doesn’t seem to notice, or care. The conversation you two had begun continues without a hitch.

“So what even brings you here, Texas?” she asks. “Starting at NYU or some shit?”

You’re vaguely aware of the fact that NYU is a college in this city, so you answer in the affirmative.

“Oh, cool!” she exclaims. “What school?”

“Uh…” Fuck. You gotta think of something fast. Her flask is in your hand, so you take a sip before you try to answer. “The engineering one.”

You hope that place has an engineering school.

“Poly? Awesome!” she asks, looking excited. “I have like, a buncha friends who go there. I can give you some of their numbers, if you want.”

“Sure, Ro. That’d be cool,” you reply. “Thanks.”

“No probs! I almost went there, ya know,” she says, and you wonder if she’s ever not this enthusiastic. You think she’s emoted more in the last hour than you do in the average year. “Then I got off the waiting list for Cornell, and got accepted, so that’s where I’m going. Still tryna finish packing all my shit.”

She points at your backpack and your duffle bag.

“That all the stuff you brought with you, Texas?”

“Yeah,” you say. “For now.”

“Makes sense packing light, since you came all this way by bus,” she says. You haven’t told her about the hitchhiking part. You don't plan to. “Are you doing student housing?”

“Nah, I’m staying with a friend,” you reply, finding it a little easier to lie as long as your bullshit has some basis in truth. “I didn’t want to pay to dorm.”

“Understandable. Fuckin’ student housing costs an arm and a leg no matter where you go.”

The pair of you watch the teenagers on the basketball court for maybe another hour. Then, you figure you should probably make your way to a payphone and call your friend to see if he’s home yet. It’s been a fun few hours with this cute girl, but you have a prior engagement. You tell her something to that effect, and she nods.

“Sure. I understand,” she says, putting her flask back in her bag. “I need to get home soon anyway. Shabbat candles to light, and all that jazz.”

You followed her up until the last part of her last sentence

“Shabbat candles?”

“I’m Jewish,” she replies. “Although my grandfather’s the observant one. I’ll walk you to the payphone, though.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, but I wanna. And it’s right over there.”

She points to it.

“Thank you.”

“It’s no big deal,” she says.

She stares at you for a while. You call her on it.

“No offense, dude, but do you always look this serious?”

“Most of the time, yeah.”

She snorts. “Serious guy with some serious sunglasses.”

You pick up the phone, put in a quarter, and dial your friend’s number. Four rings, and then you get this guy's answering machine. Again.

“Hey man, it’s Derrick. Guess you’re still working. Like I said, I got into the city a few hours ago. I’ll call you back later, then. See ya around.”

You put the phone back in its cradle.

“Roommate not home?” Ro asks.

You sigh. “Nope.”

“Do you have keys to the place?” she asks.

You shake your head.

“Whatever, though. Maybe I’ll sit in a coffee shop for a while.”

Ro seems to silently struggle with something, her mouth twitching as if she’d like to speak, but isn’t sure of what to say.

“Um,” she starts out. “If you want, you can come to my place for a bit. My grandfather probably won’t pitch that much of a fit. Even if he does, I’ll talk to him ‘till he comes around.”

You met this chick maybe four hours ago, max, and she’s already prepared to invite you over?

Then again, where the fuck else are you going to go?

“I don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

“Fuck it, Texas, it’s not a big deal, I swear.” she says. You finally acquiesce. “C’mon, let’s get to 8th Street.”

Apparently, you’re not heading for the nearest train station, because the train that stops there doesn’t go anywhere near her apartment. And once you get to the right station, Ro has to explain subway tokens to you. You confess to her that you don’t have any. She gives you one, and shoves you through the turnstile.

You kind of want to apologize to her for your uselessness - all of this is so new to you - but she’s already speed walking through the station toward… somewhere. You wouldn’t know. You try to follow along.

Once you two are on the train, Ro gazes at you critically and silently. The fact that she’s gone from jovially tipsy to thoughtful in next to nothing flat takes you by surprise.

“Alright, so, I’m telling my grandfather you’re one of my good friends from high school,” she says. “He’ll probably let you stay the night on the couch if you can’t get your roommate by then. He’s let my friend Jay stay over before, and Jay’s also a guy. I obviously can’t call you Texas, so you got a real name?”

“Derrick,” you reply. “Derrick Strider. You can call me Bro.”

“Alright, then, Bro Derrick Strider,” she says with a little grin.. “I’ll do all the talking. I got this.”

You take this train past maybe eight or nine stations, before Ro loops her arm in yours, and starts tugging you forward.

“This is our stop.”

She leads you down flights of stairs, out of the elevated station, and into the August evening. It’s still fucking hot and muggy.

“You really don’t have to do this,” you tell her.

“Yeah, well, we’re already only four blocks away from my apartment, so…”

You have no idea why she’s being so nice to you, or what she expects from you in return. Everyone expects something. That’s just how the world works. You decide not to ask just yet.

Ro stops you in front of a nondescript apartment building, unlocks the front door, and beckons you inside.

Welcome to New York City, man, you think to yourself.

“Gimme your stuff,” she says. “I know a place I can stash it so he doesn’t ask questions.”

You’re slightly concerned that she’ll steal it. Then again, you figure that if she was going to make off with your shit, she probably would have done it already, and wouldn’t have brought you all the way to her apartment just for that. It’s generally bad form to shit where you eat.

You follow her up yet another flight of stairs. She opens her pocketbook, and feels around for something, finally extricating a set of keys, which you guess correspond with locks on the door in front of you.

She unlocks them, quietly opens the door, pulls you inside, and drops your stuff behind the couch. She raises her index finger to her lips.

Keep it down, man. Right.

“Abuelo?” she calls in a more conversational volume, flipping the lights on.

You hear the flush of a toilet. A squat old man walks out of what you guess is the bathroom. He kisses the top of Ro's forehead and embraces her.

“Roxana, mi amor,” he begins, continuing to talk even after he lets go of her.

You pretty much flunked high school Spanish, so you haven’t the slightest idea what he’s saying.

He points to you, and asks Ro something. She smiles before she answers.

“Mi amigo de ‘scuela.”

Old dude nods. He crosses the living room and shakes your hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, in heavily accented English.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Nice to meet you too.”

Ro and her grandfather do a little more talking, while you stand there, feeling utterly out of place. Then, Ro turns back to you.

“Wanna help me set the table?” she asks.

“Sure.”

You do as she instructs.

When she’s finished putting out dinner, she sets down the candles. While you have no idea why anyone would light candles when it’s not even dark yet, she’s already you told it’s a religion thing. You were not raised in any particular faith, so you just roll with it. You watch her light the two candles, and then cover her eyes with her hands. She recites something in a language you’ve never heard in your life. Other than the rise and fall of her voice, it’s so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

Then, you eat dinner with them, making sure to be as gracious as possible.

You take out your lousy Spanish out for a spin, and Ro’s grandfather seems to appreciate it.

Later, she tells you that she told him that you’re just staying the night ‘cause you locked yourself out of your apartment.

You politely thank her again.

Once she’s no longer looking at you, you sigh. You don’t deserve any of this. Fucksake, you’re staying at this chick’s place under false pretenses, not just to her old man, but to her. She doesn’t know what your deal is, and even if it’s better that way, it still makes you feel like a shitty human being.

You use her phone to dial your friend. No dice. You leave yet another message.

Then, you watch Ro plug in her Atari so she can play video games at the television set. When she asks you if you want to play, you shake your head.

“You sure? I can teach you if you don’t know how,” she says.

“Nah, I've played this game before. I know what to do,” you reply. “I just don’t feel like playing. I’m kinda tired.”

“Well, okay, then.”

Ro makes you a bed on the couch, and you’re quick to pull the sheets over your head, just so you don’t have to talk to her anymore.

Maybe if you don’t talk to her, you’ll feel less guilty.

“We can try calling your roommate in the morning,” she says, before she dims the lights. “Night, Bro.”

“Night, Ro.”

You have a shitty time sleeping, even with the TV in front of the couch turned onto some 24 hour news station, so you’re not in total darkness.

Yeah, there are no screaming adults threatening to kill each other or you in this place, but you’ve never been so far from home, and it’s utterly disorienting. You toss, you turn, you try to find some kind of comfortable position to sleep in, you try harder than you ever have in your life, but you fail miserably.

After several hours of this, you just plain give up.

You look at your watch. Ten past one. You peel back the sheet and figure that you might as well get a glass of water.

But there’s Ro, sitting against the side of the couch, wearing an oversized shirt and a pair of gym shorts as pajamas.

She sips at some kind of mixed drink, and pays faint attention to the television.

Her head turns slowly when she hears you move.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asks.

“I never sleep well in new places."

Ro finishes her drink, continues to gaze at you, but doesn’t speak.

“Something on my face?” you ask again, with a strained smile, trying for a little humor.

She shakes her head.

“You’re not really an incoming freshman at Poly, are you?”

You don’t answer.

She sighs. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not stupid. I never have been.”

She’s been nothing but kind to you so far.

You may as well fess up.

“I’m not a freshman anywhere. I haven’t even finished high school yet,” you admit. You weigh your next words carefully. “And all due respect, but if you knew I was bullshitting you, why’d you let me stay over? I coulda been an axe murderer.”

“The mark on your face. The way you flinched when I handed you my lighter. How lost you looked, like you thought 6th Ave was gonna eat you,” she explains. “I don’t think you were lying about coming here from Texas, and I’m not sure if you’re lying about having a roommate. But either way, I figured you needed somewhere to go. This city isn’t the greatest place after dark, or ever, come to think of it.”

“Nowhere is,” you say.

“You might be right,” Ro says. “So, Texas, how old are you really?”

Your face falls. If she’s old enough to be in college, she’s gonna treat you like a kid when she finds out.

“Sixteen.” You add, “I’ll be seventeen in a few months. You?”

“I just turned eighteen.”

“Must be nice being able to buy your own cigarettes legally,” you tell her.

“It’s pretty much the greatest thing ever, yeah,” she says, grinning. “Now, I’m counting down to twenty-one, for obvious reasons.”

You snort, feeling more relaxed.

Still, you don’t know if you can trust this girl.

Your paranoia insists that you need to get fuck out of here before she rats you out. It’s been nice feeling sort of secure for the first time in ages, but you can’t risk being picked up by cops and sent home to fucking Texas. You’ll let that happen over your dead body.

“Thanks for the food, Ro, but I gotta get outta here,” you say. “I don’t wanna get in any trouble, and I don’t wanna get you any in trouble.”

She sighs, calls you an idiot, and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I won’t narc on you, swear on my video games,” she promises. “Stay, okay? Just ‘till the morning. Then you can go wherever.”

You roll your eyes at her, but don’t make any further attempts to leave.

You two shoot the bullshit for another few hours, you telling her about the robots you’ve halfway built from stolen parts, and her telling you about concepts in Biochemistry that go far the fuck over your head. You pretend like you understand anyway. She tells you about the two kids she babysits on a regular basis and how she considers them to be like family, and you tell her about the moderately shitty sword you used to have, which you considered to be your precious baby.

"When I get enough money, I'm gonna have a collection of mildly shitty swords," you declare.

"What for?"

You think about it. "Iunno, really. Maybe to defend my fortress from the French or something."

You even tell her a little about your childhood, trying to skirt the shitty parts, but not doing the greatest job at it. She doesn’t press you to explain further

In the end, you wind up lying down on the floor with your head in her lap, while describes some town where she spent the first twelve years of her life.

She talks about it with such detail that you can’t help but try imagine it with your eyes closed, and the soft lilt of her voice causes you to doze a little.

“There’s a park near town, and it has a waterfall,” she goes on. “Rainbow Falls, it’s called. I coulda lived in that park, you know. If you went there around dawn, it was quiet. Peaceful. The sky was all orange and pink and yellow, like a giant decided to mix paint in it. And then the sound of the rushing water. I always acted like I was looking at the sky of a different planet, some kind of land of light and rain.”

After that, you manage to drift off in earnest, your head still resting on her thigh.

In the morning, you finally manage to get a hold of your friend, who had apparently thought you’d died or something. You bring him up to speed on exactly how your afternoon and evening  went, and he laughs at you.

“Seriously? Spent the night with a girl already?” he asks. “Awesome!”

He then gives you instructions on how to get to his place from your current location, marveling once again on your evening, and on the fact that you managed to get all the way to Astoria. Once you get off the phone, you figure that you might as well get going.

You thank Ro for her kindness, and for what must be the millionth time, she assures you that it’s no big deal. Then, she writes two phone numbers on a slip of paper, and hands it to you.

“This is the phone number for this apartment,” she says, underlining the first one. “The other is the number for the dorm I’ll be living in. If you need something, just call me, okay? You know where you’re going, right?”

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, then."

At the last minute, you decide not to walk out the door just yet. You put your shit back down. You take a wadded up napkin out of the pocket of your jeans, smooth it out, and scrawl down the phone number and the address for your new apartment.

“This is how you can get ahold of me, Ro. If you wanna talk or whatever.” 

Then, you pick up your stuff. 

Ro dashes forward and hugs you as tightly as she can, standing on her tiptoes all the while. You return the gesture. It's weird, having a friend. Not that you didn't have a few friendly acquaintances back home, but other than the guy you're gonna be living with, you don't think you had someone you considered getting close to. So when you smile down at Ro, you smile a way you haven't in a while.

“See you around?” you add.

“Definitely!” she replies. “Good luck, Texas.”

Yeah. You’re gonna need it.

Still, though, you're Bro Strider. You'll make your own fucking luck. You'll do what it takes. Whatever it takes.

You tuck the slip of paper into your back pocket, and start walking to the train station.


	3. do you mean where i'm from? what i one day might become?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for clarity's sake,  
> dad egbert is suitemates with dad crocker and the midnight crew.  
> as for names,  
> henry bailey/huge barkeep = hearts boxcars  
> solomon simonovsky/self-absorbed shithead = spades slick  
> as for mom lalonde's roommates,  
> wanda quan = white queen  
> bakhta qadir = black queen

_"Who am I? Do you mean where I'm from? What I one day might become? What I do? What I've done? What I dream? Do you mean... what you see or what I've seen? What I fear or what I dream? Do you mean who I love? Do you mean who I've lost?"_

_\- Sense8_

* * *

  **August 1990 - Mom Lalonde**

Sometimes, when you're alone, you wonder what it would have been like if your parents stayed here in New York, if they hadn’t been drawn back to their native country, leaving you here with your grandfather because you were born here, and you'd have better opportunities here. But you cannot change things like that. You just wish they thought that their only child was worth staying for. Especially moments like these, where you are in a strange new place, far from subway stations, buildings so tall that they spit in gravity's face, deli owners who know you by name, small Astoria apartments, the noise, grime, and beat of New York City.

It was one thing to spend a few weekends in Ithaca with Jay, when you knew you'd invariably end up driving home at the end of the weekend. But living here? That's different. You don't know if you like the difference yet.

You think of mixing yourself a drink, decide against it, and fall into a spell of contemplation.

You’re pretty sure the only reason you even went away for college is because you wanted to fulfill unspoken, but still present, expectations. Poor Jewish Latina girl comes from nothing. Then, she attends one of the best high schools in the city through sheer luck on a standardized test. Finally, with much hard work, she ends up in the Ivy League, so she can become a doctor or an engineer, and drag her entire family out of poverty. That's how it's supposed to go, you think.

Okay, more like, to drag her grandfather out of poverty, because he’s the only one who stuck around long enough to finally be able say, “I am so proud of you, mi amor”, as you drove the two of you to your high school graduation. Your parents didn’t even send a card. They didn't send one for your last birthday, either. You want to help them, too, but they seem to have forgotten about you.

_(You think of the job you had babysitting two kids, one you'd had since you were thirteen. How one of the kids you babysat, the girl, would often decry her father's neglect at length._

_The father in question paid you well, probably because was never around._

_He missed Joanne's dance recitals and never bothered to apologize. He missed Jude's science project presentations and remained equally silent about it._

_Him and his adventures. Him and his obsession with hunting._

_Some people were probably not made to be parents, you thought to yourself._

_"I hate him, Miss Lalonde," Joey said, eyes glittering with tears, in the wake of one missed recital too many._

_She couldn't have been any older than eight back then. Hate was a rather strong word for an eight year old._

_You could have told Joey that you were sure he was doing his best, that there was probably a good reason that he seemed to hold his kids at arms length. Maybe to do with his late wife. You didn't want Joey to hate him. Parents don't leave their kids without good reason, at least that's what your grandfather said once._

_But that was not what you told her. You decided to be straight with her, because you could fully empathize with her pain._

_"I'm sorry he missed your recital again," you finally replied, and then before you could remember to censor yourself, added, "That was totally shitty of him."_

_That made Joey giggle wetly. Jude thought it was funny, too.)_

A while back, someone, probably your grandfather, told you that who you are is where you come from. You cannot escape your roots, nor can you deny them, nor should you wish to. You never have. His words were heartening then. Now, they're not.

Your parents, the people you literally issued from, are in a different country. Even Abuelito, whose apartment you'd lived in since you were a kid, is a more than five hour drive back down to Queens.

So Ro Lalonde, with your family so far away from you, when you set aside your sense of duty, who are you, exactly?

You’re good at making french toast, mofongo con queso, tostones, soup out of all kinds of interesting ingredients - chicken feet and cow feet being some of your favorites - and, of course, vodka martinis. You’re good at nearly missing appointments and deadlines and then getting by on the skin of your teeth. You’re good at sitting aimlessly, a half-bottle of wine in your hand, and staring at nothing in particular. You're also good at watching children, as long as you're mostly sober. You're excellent at making Jay laugh, and, every now and then, at making him think. And you’re good at listening. Conditionally. It depends on what you’re being told, and the person or people doing the telling.

But that's _what_ you are. That's not _who_ you are.

You hate feeling this way.

It occurs to you to use the phone in your room to call the Harley household, to allay some of your homesickness. You'd promised Joey and Jude you'd call them once you officially got to college, particularly since they went through all the trouble of getting a going-away present for their most favorite babysitter. The gift was beautiful, both the figurine they got you, and the collage they made you. You keep the former on your bedside table, and have the latter tacked up on the wall above your bed.

Not one to break promises, you called them the second you'd put most of your stuff away and begun to settle in.

You could call again, and they'd be glad to hear from you, but you're not sure what you'd say, exactly. That you're homesick? That you're confused? That you're scared? That'd be heavy shit to lay on the shoulders of an eleven year old and a nine year old.

Maybe you could call Abuelito, but you don't want him to have to get up to answer the phone. His bones are creakier than the floorboards in his apartment. And what would you tell him? That you're scared? Homesick? Maybe rethinking going to college this far upstate? Unsure of who you are, as always? You sigh, still mired in your silly transient existential crisis. 

There’s a a great deal of light in you, but also a lot of emptiness. You can't remember a time when that  _wasn't_ the case.

You’re kind of hoping that these feelings get sorted out during your years in college. That’s the hope you carry with you. That everything will smooth out the your fresh linens did, once you were done putting them on your bed.

You are...

**Lalonde, Roxana Sivan.**

Eighteen years old. A freshman at Cornell University. 

(That's still a  _what,_ though.And your name is just that. A name. A series of letters attached to your existence, an identity only in the most facile sense of the word. So all of those things, even combined, only form an outline. Two-dimensional and lacking in detail.)

Maybe James could help you out. Your best friend - and a little more every now and then - eternally unflappable, wearing perfectly tailored clothing, and lighting his tobacco pipe as if he'd just walked off the set of a 50s noir film, and he was some hot-shot detective. Jay is a dweeb and it makes you smile. 

You think of him and smile. You can't not smile where he's concerned.

You could call him, or even drive across campus to see him. Then again, you don't want to bother him just yet. Your minor anxieties will go away, or at least drop a few degrees in their intensity. They always do. If they don't, well, that's why you have a bottle of vodka in the freezer, you think wryly. You're trying to cut down on your drinking though. New school, new you. So maybe you _will_ call James.

Also what's it that he said while you two were making the long drive up to Ithaca, you doing all the driving because this guy _still_ hasn't gotten his license? That you’re not really going to know what you’re doing right off the bat? Can’t be that much different from high school, in that respect, you suppose. 

You can deal with not knowing what you're doing. _But not even knowing who you are?_

That's more complicated.

With much effort, you calm yourself down, and idly flip through the student handbook on your standard-issue ultra firm dorm room bed. Apparently, alcohol is prohibited in the first-year dorms. Yeah. Right. You’ll see about that.

Your roommates are okay. You're glad of it. You were a little scared you'd end up not getting along with them.

One's a thin affable girl with straight hair and bangs, named Wanda Quan, a freshman like you, who plans to go to pharmacy school if everything works out.

The other's a sophomore named Bakhta Qadir, who wears the hijab - except when it's just you, her, and Wanda in your dorm room - and is living in first year dorms even though she’s a sophomore, because she’s a transfer student.

She’s polite enough, but gave terse, brief answers to any question you asked her, even the friendly ones. You got the distinct impression that she preferred to be left alone for the most part.

And Wanda, who had been somewhat talkative until she saw Bakhta, goes momentarily silent when the latter enters the common area to make tea.

“What’s the deal with her?” you ask, once Bakhta's left.

Wanda shrugs, her cheeks having gone slightly pink.

“She’s not a big deal,” she assures you. “I went to high school with her. She’s quite intelligent. She’s pre-med, like you. She just… doesn’t talk much until she gets to know you.”

“And then when she does?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she says. “You’ll figure it out. She seems to like you quite a bit.”

The longest conversation you’ve had with Bakhta so far was to ask her if she wanted any french toast, and while she declined the french toast, she insisted on frying onions and halal sausage to go with it. Therefore, you have no idea what Wanda’s talking about. You tell her exactly this.

“She wouldn’t have helped you with breakfast if she didn’t like you,” Wanda explains, her face growing a little redder, and her eyes darting toward the floor.

Suddenly, you understand Wanda's strange, almost worried demeanor.

“You like her, don’t you?” you ask Wanda.

If she’s taken aback by this question, she doesn’t show it.

“Of course I like her,” Wanda says, picking at her skirt. “She’s a good friend of mine.”

You could say “Cut the bullshit” to someone like Jay - whom you have known for years - but you’ve only known this girl for a few days, and besides, she’s too kind to swear at.

“I mean you _like_  her,” you say to Wanda. “Wanna grab dinner and a movie with her, that kinda thing.”

You let that hang in the air for a while, and you're about to apologize for asking such a personal question, but Wanda finally replies that this is not an incorrect assessment of things.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" she asks.

You decide not to answer that question.

“I won’t get between you and her,” you assure her. "Swear on my Atari."

“Hard to get between what doesn’t exist yet,” she says, picking at her skirt once more, but now she's smiling again, even as she continues to blush.

You decide then that you won’t embarrass her any further with your overstepping questions and nosiness. You are a woman of many questions, but you do know how to jam a sock in it when it’s warranted.

As it also turns out, Bakhta is also friends - of sorts - with Solomon Simonovsky, one of Jay’s suitemates, the one you have lovingly been calling Self-absorbed Shithead after you started spending half your weekends at Jay's school, during your last year of high school. This because Solomon somehow manages to be curt and rude almost constantly, as if he's majoring in being an asshole.

When Wanda finds out that you’ve nicknamed him that, and your reasons behind it, she laughs for a solid half-minute.

“You should tell Bakhta that. She’ll think it’s hysterical,” Wanda says.

You promise you will.

You make a shopping list for later, and by the time you’ve finished doing that, Bakhta’s returned from arguing with whoever's present in the office of the registrar, because something in her schedule was messed up and she had to get it rectified. For what it's worth, she's got a new schedule in her hand, and seems faintly triumphant.

You’ve left a few things off the shopping list, because you want to run everything by Bakhta to make sure that she can eat all of it first. You catch her in the kitchen while she's making another cup of tea. She gives you a vague half wave and doesn't say anything, so you guess it's on you to speak.

“So, um, you mentioned that your food has to be halal?” you ask.

“Yes.”

You offer her the list you started making.

“I wanna make sure that you can eat all the food I’m about to buy. If you can’t, just cross it off, and add whatever you think should be on it.”

Bakhta gazes at you, one eyebrow quirked.

“Why do you care?”

“Well, when I was younger, I used to keep kosher,” you say. “And since we’re roommates now, using the same kitchen, and you have dietary restrictions, I want to, y’know, make sure you can eat everything in the fridge.”

That's just common courtesy.

Bakhta doesn’t speak again for a moment.

“That’s nice of you, Roxana,” she says, still looking mildly confused, but with something like a small smile on her face. “There’s a halal market in Ithaca proper. If you have a car, we can drive down there, and I’ll pick up the meat.”

"Sounds like a plan!" You look around for your car keys, and find them in the bathroom for some reason. "C'mon, Bakhta, Wanda, we're going on a quest!"

The other two girls put on their shoes.

"Is she always like this?" Bakhta mutters.

Wanda shrugs. 

"Yeah, actually," you say to the both of them. "I am."

* * *

You three relax in the room you share once groceries have been taken care of. Originally you were going to relax on your bed, but both Wanda and Bakhta are sitting on the floor, watching a movie at the VCR and big ass television that Wanda brought with her to college, so here you are on the floor with them.

It took a lot of finagling, mostly through the efforts of Henry Bailey (so that’s what Huge Barkeep’s real name is) to get the contraption up to your room. 

Meanwhile, Bakhta put the groceries away, and wanted to know who put a bottle of vodka in the freezer.

You gave her a sheepish little look, and raised your hand.

She wasn’t annoyed at you, apparently. She just wanted to make sure that whoever lived here over the summer didn’t leave their booze here. Go figure.

Presently, you three are not really watching the movie, so much as reviewing your schedules for the semester.

For Fall '90, you’re taking Biology I (and lab), since you can’t use AP exam credit toward classes germane to the major you plan to declare, along with Freshman Writing, General Chemistry for science majors (and lab), and Calculus II.

You are sorely angry that you didn’t get above a four on the AP Calculus BC exam, because then, you might have been able to avoid taking math entirely. You don’t mind math, you just don’t want to rehash things you already know.

You bump Wanda, who is sitting next to you, with your shoulder.

“What’s your schedule look like?” you ask both her and Bakhta.

Wanda offers to swap with you. And looking over her schedule, it seems like she’s got the same classes as you, except she’s taking Calculus I.

Bakhta, who is on the other side of Wanda from you, surprisingly decides to chime in.

“Mine doesn’t look too bad, now that everything's been straightened out,” she says. “Except for Organic Chemistry, obviously. That will be difficult.”

You think it’s been standardized across every college on Earth that Orgo is the weed-out class for pre-meds.

“So, uh, Wanda mentioned that you were pre-med. Do you know what specialty you want to go into yet?” you ask her.

Bakhta nods, and stretches, pushing an errant lock of dark wavy hair out of her eyes.

Wow, she is certainly pretty. So is Wanda. Your heart is doing that double time thing.

_Ro, if you stare at them any harder, your eyes'll fall out of your head._

This is like the first time you saw Jay naked and the glorious sight before you rendered you speechless for a full two minutes. To be fair, the man is tall and buff, an absolute vision of perfection. What other reaction were you supposed to have?

And then he had the audacity to seem all bashful, like he didn't resemble a Greek god made mortal. Meanwhile, you stood before him, equally bare, but probably not as impressive. He told you that you were the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. That made you flush from your scalp to your toes.

You really do love Jay Egbert sometimes, and not only when he's naked.

Bakhta's response pulls you out of your little "how Jay looks naked" reverie.

“Yes, I am. I am majoring in biochemistry, and thinking of going into ER medicine if I actually get into med school. What about you, Roxana? What do you want to major in?”

“Neurobiology,” you say, “But also I’m pre-med.

"Oh? Do you want to go to school for neurology, or for something else?"

"Neurology, definitely," you say with the with the most conviction and widest grin you've had all day. 

“You must be really smart, then,” Bakhta offers.

You’re not that smart. You were in your high school’s national honor society and you were definitely in the top ten percent in your class, but now you’re going to a college where pretty much everyone was in the top ten percent of their high school graduating class. Top ten percent at the very least. And you only ended up at this school after being waitlisted for a while.

You’re not all that smart, in your opinion, but you are tenacious. You hope that counts for something.

“I guess?” you reply. “I don’t know. Everyone here is really smart. I don't know if I'm smart enough.”

Your anxiety must show on your face.

“If you weren’t smart enough to be here, you probably wouldn’t have gotten in. This school is not particularly renowned for admitting idiots, Solomon aside.”

You know it’s a compliment, a compliment and a joke to calm you down again, that you’re meant to laugh, but you still feel wound-up.

“What if everyone else is smarter than me?”

Great, you’ve gotten all revelatory and idiotic sounding, and you haven’t been drinking today.

“Then study harder,” Bakhta responds, as if this should be the most obvious thing in the universe.

Wanda rests her head on your arm, and smiles thinly up at you.

“For what it’s worth, I am somewhat scared of the same thing, Ro,” she says. “But classes don’t start for two days, so perhaps you should refrain from agonizing until after we have seen what we’ll be up against.”

You suppose that would be the most rational thing to do.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Wanda’s usually right,” Bakhta says. “The time she told me not to shout at that one kid in 10th grade notwithstanding.”

This time, you actually do laugh.

Later, though, you think about your future here, which lies ahead of you, a four-year stretch of uncharted territory. You know what you want to be. You know what you are at this moment in time. But... those are just the outlines, as long as you continue to be unsure of  _who_ you are. You're not fully shaded in yet.

You'll call Jay in the morning, just so he knows what's going on with you. You'd go over there and make breakfast for him and his suitemates, but you aren't particularly fond of Josh Crocker - Jay's roommate, who was also his roommate last year - and you don't see your impression of him changing anytime soon. You two mutually tolerate each other for Jay's sake.

You sigh, put your schedule away in one of your notebooks, and try to watch the movie.


End file.
